


Magic and Mess

by midnightblack07



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Cunnilingus, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightblack07/pseuds/midnightblack07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A woman's life is nine parts mess to one part magic.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic and Mess

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** slight potential spoilers through ADWD  
>  **Written for:** the asoiafkinkmeme prompt "after the birth of their first child, Sansa's feeling a little insecure with her body..."

+

 

_A woman's life is nine parts mess to one part magic._

The words come to her unbidden, the memory of their owner a ponderous ( _permanent_ ) rock at the pit of her stomach. But when the fabric of her bodice pulls uncomfortably against the fullness of her swollen breasts, Sansa cannot bring herself to discredit them entirely. 

It's a small price to pay though, she thinks, the memory of her Robb pressed tightly against those same breasts a far kinder musing. She can still remember the look on Jon's face--is certain it will be etched in her memories until the day she does--the awe, the wonder, the _love_. And she can so clearly remember the blue of his eyes staring back at her, the dark downy of his father's hair ( _her father's hair_ ) peeking through even now, and she feels that ache--so sharp, sudden--to hold him within the safety of her arms once more.

 

It wouldn't do though, to rouse him at so late an hour for her own selfish pleasure, and she almost chastens herself for still being so inclined towards such capricious idle musings (one of many lessons she has yet to perfect, it seems). 

And so, she busies her hands with some needlework instead, as she is often like to, carefully embroiders a grey direwolf onto a white handkerchief and dreams of what they will call him when he is a man grown ( _he young wolf, the King in the North..._ ). She's nearly completed her work on the front paw when the softly creaking door signifies Jon's entrance. 

She looks up as the soft padding of his feet draws closer and graces him with a small smile, feels a slight tinge at the weariness of his features. Though it is not unlike her lord husband to lose himself in the abyss of darker musings, it is not something Sansa could ever truly bring herself to dismiss.

When he bends to press a soft kiss to her forehead, strokes his fingers through her hair just the way she likes, she need not wonder why. 

She almost immediately puts aside her embroidery and beckons him to sit, makes room beside her where he acquiesces with a tired sigh. 

“Trouble?” she inquires, brows furrowed and a hand placed over his own.

“Always,” he smiles wryly in response. “But, nothing dire.”

She knows the added assurance is solely for her benefit and, while she appreciates the care he takes with her, she cannot quell the flicker of frustration that ebbs to the surface. She is far from the fragile child she once was, and he is as privy to that fact as she is.

“Jon, you can tell me—“

“There is nothing to tell,” he cuts in, the words almost sharp and certainly final.

“As you wish, my lord.”

She turns to the fire and it takes more than a smidgen of effort to keep from sniffing childishly, the way a younger girl who was ever careful of referring to the man beside her as “half brother”—no more, no less—would have.

“Sansa,” his fingers are at her chin not a moment too soon though, drawing her back to him just as the woman who refers to him (boldly, _proudly_ ) as her “lord husband” knew they would.

“Forgive me, I am much too tired, and the proposals never seem to end,” he whispers, brushes the edge of his thumb along her lower lip so that it tugs against the calluses.

She knows him well enough to know that it would take far more than a few proposals to put him into such a state--would tell him that there is nothing to forgive--except he’s already leaning forward, places a soft kiss at the corner of her mouth and has her leaning into him with a silent plea for more.

But, when his hands reach up to palm her breasts, still tender and swollen with milk, she nearly flinches—remembers the slight sag of her belly and the fullness of her hips that the master had promised would subside in due time.

_But this is Jon_ , she reminds herself, _her_ Jon, and she need only remember the way he looks at her (eyes dark with love and want and desperate _need_ ) to keep from pulling away.

“Gods Sansa, I’ve missed you,” he whispers against the skin of her neck before he’s kissing it again, the wet drag of his open mouth igniting that throbbing ache between her thighs.

_Gods_ , she’s missed him too. 

It’s been days since the maester has given Jon leave to resume his martial rights, but Jon—ever careful with her—thought it perhaps best to wait just a little longer.

She thinks that, if not for the foreign weight that clings to her body, she would have found ways to coax her lord husband into her bed that would have had Septa Mordane turning in her grave (she does not allow herself to think what they would have done to her mother, or their father) even sooner. 

She need not worry about coaxing him now though, not when his deft fingers have already undone the laces at the front of her bodice, relieving her breasts of their constricting weight.

Not when he's already moving to kneel at her feet, his lips still connected with hers, his hands fisted almost too tightly in the long waves of her hair.

"I would see you," he rasps, forehead pressed against her own and breathing heavy. 

Something sinks at the pit of her stomach as she draws him in for another kiss, perhaps hoping to dissuade him from this particular desire in some recess of her mind. 

Not since the early days of their marriage has Sansa shied away from her husband's gaze (she's almost swear it was another girl who came to their wedding bed stoic and unyielding and mistrustful, even of a man she's known all her life).

And yet, she cannot stifle the discomfort that rises when she feels him tug the gown down her shoulders exposing her bare breasts and her softened middle.

When his lips make their trail down the newly revealed flesh, she goes stock still despite herself--a shift in demeanor that has Jon's lips ceasing their exploration almost immediately.

"What is it?" He looks up at her, eyes still startlingly dark and unfocused in their desperate need.

"It's just--it hasn't been the same, since the baby."

She averts her eyes, face warm with color and stomach churning in a most unpleasant way. _Perhaps he has been thinking much of the same, but is too kind to say?_ It would not be unlike him, after all.

"Sansa," he sighs, with what she allows herself to think is the realisation of her meaning dawning on him.

Suddenly, he's cradling her face in the cage of his rough hands, kissing her in a way that leaves her slightly dizzy when they part before speaking again.

" _That_ is the last thing you need to pay any heed to."

And with that he's lifting her skirts, sliding her stockings down her legs while his lips shower the length of it with their attention, tongue curling against the crease at the back of her knee before he moves up again.

And then they're _there_ , so close to where she wants them that she's tugging almost painfully at his hair, pushing his head closer and whining in a way that will likely make her blush when she considers it later.

She gasps when she feels the scratch of his beard and the press of his lips at her center, moans loudly when he tongues that curious little nub that always manages to drive her wild--to stir that winding low in her belly before it undoes her entirely.

There is no room in her mind for anything but the feel of his lips and his tongue and that tightening low in her belly that becomes nearly unbearable when he alternates between gently sucking on that nub and lapping his tongue against it.

"Gods, I love your cunt," he groans, and she feels herself twitch, shocked to this day and thrilled all at once at his obscenity. 

Her release takes her by surprise, has her collapsing back into the settee as Jon soothes her through it with slow licks and soft kisses between her thighs. She rouses again when she feels him pulling the fabric of her gown even further down her hips, so that the garment is discarded completely, leaving her in nothing but one of her grey stockings.

She feels the heat rise to her cheeks as his eyes take her in, roam over every inch of her as he pulls the lone stocking down her legs. 

It comes back to her then, the desire to cover herself from the heat of his gaze, but how silly it would be to do so now before him, before Jon who has seen her bare more than half a hundred times?

She does not protest when he pulls her forward, her legs wrapping around his middle on instinct so that she's straddling him when he falls back onto the dark furs covering the stone floor.

Something tightens in her chest at the way he looks up at her, eyes still impossibly dark and lips slightly parted as if in _awe_. It's no different from the way he always looks at her when they're together, as if he still can't quite be certain any of it is real--as if he needs only to blink and she'll disappear as promptly as the fog of breath on a cold winter's day. 

_No_ , she wants to tell him, _I'm here to stay, here for good--as are you..._

Instead she leans forward for a kiss, slides her tongue into his open mouth and moans softly at the feel of his hardness against the sensitive flesh between her thighs. It isn't long before she takes the length of him in her hand and sinks onto it, before she's gasping and her eyes are fluttering shut.

" _Oh_ ," she moans, rocking slowly so that he's brushing against that place inside her that drives her mad, until she braces her hands against the flat surface of his chest and pushes herself upward.

When she looks down at him she sees that Jon's still watching her, utterly transfixed, and she feels the nagging of her self-consciousness resurface.

But, when she puts her arm forward in the hopes of covering what she can of her belly, he takes it in his own hand and presses a kiss to her palm.

"Gods-- _Sansa_ \--you're so beautiful," he rasps, breath hitched from _her_ movements. "The most beautiful..."

It doesn't take long for her to find release with this angle and his sweet whispers and the way he _watches_ her while she moves atop him.

She falls forward after, boneless and sated, lays her head against the crook of his neck and takes comfort in the steady thrum of his heart beat beneath her open palm.

"The queen would see us, once Robb is fit for travel," he whispers, breaks the calm of the silence like the crack of a whip.

It's no secret between the two of them that Sansa abhors the thought of ever treading the grounds south of The Neck, that the halls of the Red Keep and the fetid air of King's Landing still haunt her sleeping hours far more than she'd like them to. 

"She needs to see her heir," Sansa hears herself say, concedes in some part of her mind (honed by years of false courtesies and measured words) that there is no danger in this, that it is her right after all.

Jon doesn't confirm her words, but he places a soft kiss against her hair in assurance all the same. 

"If you'd rather not accompany us, I'm certain she would understand," he says after a pause, offers her an out she could kiss him senseless for. 

But she knows, even in her numbness, that she will not take it. 

_I am a Stark. Yes, I can be brave._

"No, we'll go together--the three of us. When the time comes."

She kisses him then, quells the thought that no Stark she's known has evaded the red castles daunting walls unscathed. 

_A different time, a different queen_ , she tells herself.

After all, she's certain she's lived through more than her fair share of mess over magic.

 

+


End file.
